


Alone, Together

by daasgrrl



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Slash, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-16
Updated: 2007-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:36:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To paraphrase - Wilson learns to love himself. Literally. With just a little help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone, Together

**Author's Note:**

> It struck me earlier this week that I haven’t written anything terribly explicit in a while, so this is completely self-indulgent in all sorts of ways, which is… kind of appropriate I guess *g*. Mostly gratuitous smut, with a tiny plot chaser. Honest.

The room is still and quiet as Wilson finally settles himself onto the bed, ditching one pillow, and moving the other into a more central position to give himself the maximum amount of space before lying down. The lamp on the nightstand is on, and it casts a warm circular glow of light that really only touches his face and the upper half of his chest, which is bare. In fact, he's not wearing anything at all, and he's very aware of this as he feels the coverlet cool and smooth underneath the length of his body. He'd be more comfortable doing this in the dark, maybe, but tonight this is the way he wants it. It’s only practical to see what he's doing - and, although he doesn't admit it to himself, maybe just a little more arousing as well. He's double checked that the door is locked, even though he's not exactly expecting anyone to burst in halfway though. It just makes him feel better, safer.

Now he takes a single deep breath and starts slowly, with nothing but the press of his warm palm against his cock, which is still flaccid, not fully committed to the situation. There are many potential scenarios he could use to get things going, but tonight he knows he wants it to be House, who surprised him once with a spontaneous appearance in his fantasies - long ago, while he was still married - and never left. In fact, if anything, over time he became more persistent, leaving Julie and Cuddy and even Claudia Schiffer in the dust. The more firmly Wilson tried to banish him, the more determinedly he stayed, every bit as stubborn as the real thing. He's learned since then not to fight it. So it's nothing new to him, what he's about to do, but he's a little uncertain all the same.

If he closes his eyes, he can concentrate a little better, and so he does. He begins, as stupidly romantic as ever, with the thought of House kissing him, of lips parting against his, House's tongue in his mouth. His cock twitches obediently, and he rubs it a little, still using the flat of his hand, just enjoying the slow rush of blood, the slightly rough friction of skin against skin. Now House turns his attention from Wilson's mouth to the area under his jaw, and on the bed Wilson tilts back his head, almost feeling the merciless scrape of stubble against the softer skin of his neck. He continues to caress himself with the fingers of his left hand, the other lightly splayed on his chest, as House rubs and kisses and nips. _Yes_ , he's murmuring, imagining House's breath against his skin, the heat of his body, and finally his hand closes completely around his cock. There's a bottle of lube already set out on the nightstand, but he avoids reaching for it yet, wanting to draw things out as long as he can. There's no rush. He's getting harder now, the familiar tingling building in his groin and the pit of his stomach.

Slowly, he spreads his legs a little wider, to give himself better access, and his right hand reaches down to cradle his balls, fondling them gently. He continues to tug softly at himself with his left hand as the other travels further afield, brushing against the skin of his inner thighs and along the seam of the perineum. All the while, House is there with him. First, he makes his way down Wilson's chest, tonguing first one nipple and then the other, which makes Wilson gasp. His free hand automatically makes its way back up to his chest to pinch himself sharply as House does it again and again. Wilson moans a little, replicating each imagined dip of House's head with a twist from his fingers, feeling the rush of pleasure-pain, then rubbing the skin to diffuse the sensation. House is saying something to him now, but he can't hear it for the blood rushing in his ears and he's holding himself back from stroking himself quite as hard or fast as he wants. He forces himself to calm down a little and get his breathing back under control before continuing.

Now House has pulled back, looming over him in the semi-dark, and he's just _looking_ at Wilson, with an expression of fierce concentration. House, too, is almost fully erect, and Wilson watches him touch himself, almost carelessly, and feels the moisture beading at the end of his own cock. Wilson uses his fingers then, spreading it over the tip of his glans and further down the shaft, but it's not quite enough to give him the sensations he wants. Maybe it's time for the lube. He opens his eyes, casting a glance into the depths of the room for a moment before rolling onto his side and reaching for the bottle. The gel is cool in his palm, and he warms it a little before stroking it onto his cock, using both hands. He imagines it's House doing this, with his hands - or even better, that it's really the feel of his mouth. _Oh_ , he whispers, _oh yeah_ , and his eyes drift shut again. House's mouth is wrapped around his cock, his tongue sliding up and around its length, the warmth and the wetness of it. And it's only his hand, still, but the thought sends new shocks right to his groin and he moves just a little faster, his other hand absently stroking his leg, thinking of the roughness of House's skin, his hair.

He keeps this up for a while and then he realizes that it’s not going to end here. House isn’t just sucking his cock, he’s doing so in _preparation_ for something more. Wilson bites back another moan at the thought. After _this_ , House will lie face down on the bed, and then Wilson will straddle him and push his cock deep inside until House cries out under him. And he'll do it again, and again, and House will goddamn submit and let him, _beg_ him. Wilson will take him, _just_ like that and it'll be rough, and hard, and leave both of them breathless. He thinks of this as he strokes up and down, faster and faster, his cock stiff and slick in his hand. His head and heels are pushed back hard against the bed, and his other hand is clutching at the covers as he arches upwards. "Greg," he actually says aloud, the name he only dares to use when he and House are together like this, and he can feel the small flush of embarrassment on top of his arousal, but it doesn't matter now, not when it feels so incredibly good. 

Then there's nothing resembling thought anymore. It's just the unbearable tightness coiled within him, the need, the one that renders him completely helpless and blind to everything around him and it doesn't even matter what House is doing anymore except that he's here, he's _here_ , and oh _god_ , and his orgasm sets every nerve alight as he ejaculates over his hand and his belly. His mouth falls open helplessly, but the sounds he makes are unintelligible even to him. He thinks he can hear House gasp, the sound coming to him as though from a great distance, and he sighs and lets his head fall back as the endorphin high consumes him. Eventually, his hand comes to rest wrapped gently around his spent cock, and his breath continues to rush in and out of him with no dignity whatsoever. He feels a strange, perverse sense of achievement. It'll never be the same as actually doing it with a lover, with House, but it wasn't bad this way, not at all.

He lies there, just listening to his breath rasp in his own ears, and waiting. Then there are uneven footsteps, and a figure finally moves out of the darkness to settle itself as a warm presence on the bed, making that side dip a little and forcing Wilson to shift his weight. He rolls over onto his side and opens his eyes, a little anxiously. House leans over and kisses him, pushing him onto his back again. He runs one hand a little possessively over Wilson's body, not at all fazed by the mess on his stomach, smearing it a little with his fingers.

"God, I wish I'd taken a video of that," House says, and kisses him again, even as Wilson raises one hand to swat him.

"It was good?" Wilson says, hating how ridiculously needy he sounds.

"It was great. I'm obviously better than even _I_ expected."

Wilson mock-glares at him and flushes just a little in recollection, but he doesn't regret his choice of fantasy, given the genuine appreciation underlying the smirk on House's face. They haven't done this before, not exactly, but House had always joked about wanting to just sit back in a chair and watch the show, watch _him_ , and tonight Wilson had finally given in. House is getting older, and sometimes the combination of pain and medication and the passing years makes it impossible for them to do all the things Wilson still wants, the vivid memories he has now even better than the fantasies he used to cherish. But it makes Wilson feel good to know he's still attractive, still wanted, despite all of it, and the light in House's eyes makes that feeling impossible to deny. Another kiss, and then House disappears, unlocking the bedroom door without passing further comment on Wilson's neuroses, and reappears with a washcloth so that Wilson can clean up. Then they spoon up together, the fabric of House's clothes rough against Wilson's bare skin, the buckle of House's belt digging into his back a little, but it's not so uncomfortable that he'd want House to stop.

"I love you," House says quietly, and something twists inside Wilson, as it always does. It’s still something rare enough to be precious, and it humbles him. Because he knows that House would never so much as contemplate saying such a thing unless he truly meant it. Ironically, it's always been Wilson who's had the most difficulty with the words, because he's realized since this _thing_ with House began that he hadn't ever really known what they meant. He'd used them to mean "I need you", or "I'm sorry for you", or "Don't leave me." He doesn't like telling House he loves him, because it feels somehow cheap, insincere, with a hundred other repetitions lurking in the shadows. He shifts in House's embrace to meet his eyes.

"I'm here," he says, instead, because the truth of his words is undeniable for both of them, and that's part of his own promise, the one he thinks he can keep. To just _be_ there, with all of himself, for as long as House needs him, or wants him, or can stand to have him around. It's a bigger commitment than he's ever yet managed to anyone. House understands that, and accepts it, and that's yet one more reason why Wilson knows that no matter what happens, he's lucky to have what he does, right now. He kisses House again, and then turns back to lie a while longer in his arms.

In another few minutes he'll get up and take a shower, and probably get out to find House in the living room, _their_ living room, flicking through the channels as usual, or studying a journal or trashy magazine. He'll glance up from behind his reading glasses, and Wilson will join him, and they'll sit together for a while in companionable silence, or maybe he'll just give him a goodnight kiss and go get some of that sleep he promised himself earlier. And that'll be okay, too. 

Because unlike all his previous relationships, even when House isn't right there with him, he never feels alone.


End file.
